She did not see it, but a pained expression crossed his face as he came to the window, and, placing an arm around her, they looked down together on the rhododendrons. Why could not happiness last? What was the curse that at every turn blighted his fondest hopes? The last time he had looked on those rhododendrons was on that fateful dark night, when Gilda Tempest, the burglar--the burglar whom he had fancied that he loved-- slid down the silken rope from the window, and disappeared in their dark shadows. And now the hideous memory came to his mind, to destroy his brightest hopes, his dream of bliss. He turned away, leaving Hilda at the window. He stood lighting a cigarette, and again his gaze chanced in a tragic direction. In front of him was the safe, where his father had shot and killed the burglar, and there, the spot where his murdered father had, in his dying words, stammered out, in choking gulps to Edgson, the awful warning to Raife, his son, to "beware of the trap-- she--that woman." Who was that woman and what was the trap? Again, that was the spot where he had nearly shot Gilda Tempest, the second burglar. Why, oh why, had his mother chosen this room in which to receive his beloved Hilda--his fiancee? Calling to Hilda, he said: "Come, Hilda, let us go downstairs and find your father. They have gone into the grounds, and won't be far away." They went downstairs, she on to the terrace, and he into a morning-room. He rang the bell and Edgson, the butler, entered. "Mix me a stiff whisky and soda, Edgson, please." The old man eyed his master quizzically as he handed him the cool drink in a long, sparkling tumbler. "Aren't you feeling well, Sir Raife?" Between gulps, Raife replied: "Oh, yes, Edgson, only a bit tired, thank you." "I hope, Sir Raife, you've had a pleasant holiday, sir. We are all very glad to see you back again, sir." "Thank you, Edgson. Yes, very pleasant indeed." Then, with the licence of an old servant of the family, Edgson chatted on: "Pardon the liberty, Sir Raife, but we saw the announcement in the _Morning Post_, sir, Miss Muirhead who has just come to stay, sir. She's your `fyancee,' isn't she, sir? She's a very beautiful young lady, sir, if I may take the liberty, sir. And if that's her father, sir, he's a very handsome old gentleman--Again asking your pardon, Sir Raife, we, in the servants' hall, wishes to offer you our hearty congratulations." Raife was accustomed to the old butler's garrulity and smilingly replied: "Thank you, Edgson. And will you thank the others for me. If all goes well, we'll very soon be having gay times in the old house." As he retired towards the door the old man talked to himself. "Ay! That we will, I warrant, if Master Raife has anything to do with it." He had barely closed the door when he knocked and entered again. "Excuse me, Sir Raife--"